Chapter Sixteen

*This chapter is set before Chapter Fifteen and directly after Chapter Fourteen which is why it is all in italics (much like Chapter Twelve).

China was still in his kitchen thirty minutes after Russia left.

Still spinning the cup between his hands. Still thinking about their interaction.

He enjoyed talking to the Russian. He really did. It was sometimes nice to be able to talk to people other than himself or his bosses. Occasionally he spoke with the neighbors but he hadn't really tried to interact with them recently.

It was usually an internal struggle to talk with humans who he could get along with. On one hand, he was happy that they didn't have to suffer through near-eternal life. On the other hand, however, it was awful to see people he cared about go.

People he cared about.

The cup's spinning stopped with a hollow 'clack' as his nails hit the edges. It really was not healthy to keep thinking about negative things. Wasn't he supposed to be… what was the word. Ditzy? Light hearted? Not depressed?

A heavy sigh left his lungs. Did he really care if it was 'healthy'? No. No of course not. It didn't matter to him if what he thought about, or at least the light he viewed things he thought about in, was negative. He knew that if he didn't make an effort to heal he wouldn't. (He wasn't really sure if he was ready to heal even after all this time.)

Innocently, as if his mind was trying to get itself off of the topic, Russia drifted back into his mind. The white haired, violet eyed personification he had been sure he disliked. Had been.

At this point he was starting to appreciate the man. His visits (even if more times than not in the middle of the night) were a good way to not lose himself in loneliness. With company, even if it was such pathetic company as that, there were times he could get the pain of past experiences out of his head.

Sad? Yes, of course it was.

He had things to take care of, multiple human leaders to worry about, a dragon boss who hadn't contacted him in over a month. The dishes, meetings, paperwork and general selfcare. But what did that matter in the long run if something as trivial as trauma over two thousand years ago was still fresh in his mind?

He was fully aware that the others had been through awful things, and many of his other experiences in war (particularly injuries) should have been worse and more fresh in his mind. But those things happened far more often than misscariage.

Actually, did it fully count as misscariage? It had been through an injury after all, did that change the classification somehow? (In the back of his mind he knew it did not change the classification, it was just a question he asked himself quite often.)

This question roughly translated into, "but is it valid?" He asked himself aloud, head snapping up from the table to stare daggers at the wall across from him.

And really, was it valid? Did it count if no one but him was aware of it? If he was a guy and no one would believe him if he even tried to tell anyone? Probably not.

An impossible weight seemed to drop in his abdomen, the bitter taste of dull fear sticking to the back of his throat. What if people would blame him for it? He did of course blame himself so it would not be a far cry if others thought the same. He had been the one to agree to go into the battle. He had been the one to foolishly allow the injury to happen. He had-

Quietly, he cut himself off, "No," he whispered, slowly standing, "just don't think about it." (This was a horrible coping mechanism and he knew it, but with the rare will to care about his own well being it was the best he could do.)

Pulling himself away from the table he left the cup of tea, knowing he would eventually come back to it.

Tracing the path of his eyebrows, China rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers, groaning to himself. He felt distantly tired, the exhaustion from the conversation with Russia finally catching up. Keeping up an act to seem happy for long periods of time was hard work.

But he paused. It hadn't really been an act the entire time, he truly had been enjoying himself for most of the conversation. An itchy feeling rose on his arms, raising the fine hairs that sat there.

He was used to keeping on a mask to hide his true thoughts, as he knew most of his allies and enemies did. It was a natural safety precaution after so many betrayals in their long lives. Now that he didn't need one anymore he felt strangely…

Unsafe.

It was as if there were people talking about him. That classic feeling of 'people walking on his grave' as humans said. A discomfort that settled in the back of his chest, between his upper ribs.

Even with such an ally as Russia, who always kept his own emotions an enigma (especially to China, who didn't really understand how regular, non-hidden emotions worked) there was still something distantly thrilling about keeping secrets. But now that the secrets were being worked to the surface he felt anything but thrilled.

He felt scared. Really and truly scared of what was to come.

He wouldn't feel anger if the others blamed him, it was what he expected from them after all. But he was still scared of that reaction. He had tried his best to prepare himself, to keep the fear of rejection at a minimum.

But it really hadn't worked very well. He still felt an urge to vomit up what little he had eaten that day, an urge to pull out his own hair strand by strand. He was trapped in this moment. But it was reality.

It was his reality and he couldn't do anything about it. That had to become apparent at some point…

...right?

Growling to himself and making a swift turn in his steps to begin pacing, China tried to fight down the feeble, stereotypically girl-ish reaction.

He was a full grown man (or at least he seemed to be, he actually wasn't sure what his physical age was) who had been walking the Earth for thousands of years. He wasn't fearful. He wasn't weak. He wasn't supposed to second guess himself, he had to be sure what his actions would cause, careful of every eye blink, of every off-hand phrase. This was necessary for his own comfortable survival.

But he hadn't really been doing that much recently had he? He had been outspoken and plainly the opposite of careful with words.

Where were your primal instincts when you needed them? (Or as the case may be the ability to fight them down.)

They weren't in a war anymore, he had no reason to be angry, no reason to fight for his own safety. He had to be calculated. Calm. Polite.

"But that's so hard," he groaned to himself. And it was. It was hard when so many things were on his mind.

Again distracting himself, the Asian nation tried to think about other things. And again his mind fell on his newly found half friend. Russia. The discomfort subsided, taking a backseat to curiosity and appreciation. Russia, though terrifying in many aspects, had been very kind to him recently.

His heart swelled with respect. It wasn't quite trust, not yet, but it was close. Even if he was only in it for personal gain (which, let's be real here, he most likely was) kindness was highly valued.

A small smile was visible now, though the short personification did not notice it. He truly loved spending time with the foolish Russian. Loved watching him talk, loved appreciating his accent, no, every aspect of his voice. Hearing the way sounds bounced around in English compared to his native language.

How he was able to keep conversation on track even with virtually no social edicate, how he could accidentally tell jokes and laugh at them, how-

China caught himself, disgruntled. What was he thinking? He had to remain neutral. He had to be careful with what he thought about or the words in his head would start to come true. He didn't believe he could be thinking positive things about the man who had once represented the USSR (not that China's current state was all that much better). He refused to admit that he cared about anyone but those nation's he had raised.

It had always been too painful historically to care about anyone else. He had to keep these thoughts to himself for the sake of his own well-being.

But a voice in the back of his head still whispered, 'these thoughts are in your head' it said. 'Why can't you think of them if they are only heard by you?' it continued to ask.

"Lies!" He seethed to himself. Emotion, especially ones that affected others, were bad ideas. He had years of experience to back this up. Years of allies who betrayed him. Years of bosses who didn't care about him as a person. Years of pain and suffering for both him and his people that were caused by foolish mistakes.

It wasn't with it. Secrets were better forgotten, not whispered behind his back, not put on a billboard for all to see, not obstructed from his own view but no one else's.

Shifting his weight back onto his right foot, China half-fell into a sitting position on the floor. He held his face in his hands.

It was a hopeless fight. He should have stopped caring by now. Most women were able to get over misscariage, or at least to move on in their lives. But on the other hand most women could talk to people about their pregnancy related struggles. Most women didn't have to keep such awful things to themselves.

But he wasn't 'most women'. He wasn't even a woman.

Growling into the dark olive skin of his palm, China tried to let his emotions out smoothly. Why did his curiosity always do this to him? What was it with his luck and painful memories?

There was a certain beauty in this moment. A certain eerie calm in his collapsed figure in the middle of the lonely kitchen. A certain defiance directed at reality.

"I'm so sorry little one," he choked, "you didn't… deserve this,"

He wasn't even talking to the fetus that had been growing. He was referring to the consciousness that it could have been. The person it could have grown into. He didn't know if it had had a consciousness, if it had thought things or hadn't been given a soul yet.

He had no idea how that was to work in a regular human and the helpless confusion was only advanced by the fact that he had not been born. He was related to no one by blood.

Another strangely peaceful reality sat in that lonely phrase. At least he got to be his own being, not needing to act in the wake of any ancestors or make the way for anybody who would remember him as family.

Everyone he had tried to treat as family no longer saw him as such, or never had in the first place. That was the miserable part of it.

He was driving himself into a corner in his own mind, constantly running in circles to avoid the hard questions. He had to hide from himself to get a decent night of sleep now that there was no immediate war or threat of nuclear annihilation weighting on him instead.

Why did Russia have to leave so soon? Now he had relatively nothing to comfort himself with. He just wanted to curl up beside- anyone really, though he had a select few who would be best- and fall asleep. A completely innocent exchange, though very hard to come by.

Silent tears stung the corners of his eyes as he wiped his nose the the back of his sleeve, a loud 'sniff' following quickly. He refused to completely break down.

In a few days (or was it weeks? He wasn't sure) there was a meeting at America's house. It wasn't a world meeting as it had been last time, but there was still a creditable amount of people expected to attend.

He had to keep it together for a bit longer. Just a bit longer.

A/N I couldn't have y'all getting too comfortable without some hopeless angst now could I? Also I moved to updates to Saturday for school's sake.